[center][h2]The Welcoming Committee[/h2][/center]

[center][img]https://i.imgur.com/qEZu58W.jpg[/img][/center]

“Unit Two’s in position.”  The earpiece buzzed softly.

Terrragona shifted in the passenger seat.  “Copy.  Stand by.”  The Traders’ Market was the perfect spot to lift a man right off the street.  For decades, vendors had set their booths along the narrow two block section just beyond the gates of the Tradeport in hopes of coin from sailors and passengers alike.  The place was noisy, disorienting in its’ barrage of colors and seedy attractions.  Above all, it was crowded.  Once the quarry was jostling their way through the mob, Terragona and Eames would close the front door behind them, and move in.  If the target took wise and chose to rabbit, their only egress was the market’s far end…right into the waiting arms of Cho and Reynolds.  It never failed.

“Chief,” Reynolds said over the comm channel, “who is this guy again?”

“It’s a corporate job,” the team leader replied.  “All hush hush, with a nice payout for each of us.”

“Gorramit,” crackled the response.  “Another jungle tour?  I didn’t bring my hip waders.”

He cast a sidelong glance toward Eames, who wore a wry smile.  “Next time, try reading the job spec…hold up.  Eames lifted an index finger from the wheel, silently pointing toward a man limping his way through the Tradeport gates.  Terragona thumbed his dossier to the image capture.  He narrowed his eyes, searching beyond the cover of bandages and a sling for ident confirmation.  Approximate age, height, and hair color all checked out, but the shoulder patch on his coveralls sealed the deal.

“McSorley?” Eames studied the target through his monocular.  “Wasn’t that the…”

“Copy.”

“Jeez…this guy’s a mess.  Do we still get the bonus for ‘easy?”

“Every pfennig.  Unit Two,” Terragona keyed his mic, “we’ve got eyes on the target.  This one’s easy.  Go prep the wet room.”

“That’s a rodg…Two’s en route.”  

Once the channel closed, the leader and his wingman ditched their earpieces.  “Nice and quick…we finally catch a break.”

Eames chuckled as they climbed out of the black panel van.  “Let’s make it happen.”

*************************************

Buddha, but he was sore.  
Despite the gentle care of Dr. Lysanger, Yuri felt the pain in every joint, the stinging tug of each stitch, and the synchronous throbbing in his head and arm.  Moving like a man decades older, he slowly made his way through the open gates of the Tradeport. Once outside, he paused.  [i]Wasn’t someone supposed to meet me here?[/i]  Ahead of him lay some sort of open air bazaar, a cacophony of noise and gaudy displays echoing back to Yuri’s place across the service road.

The service road itself was mostly clear, but for a gleaming black lorry.  His interest was further drawn when the doors opened to reveal two men.  The sight of black suits and sunglasses gave him an instant chill. “Yuri Antonov?”  The passenger took the lead as they approached.  

Yuri froze.  This was every bad action-adventure capture he’d ever seen, coming to life.  He stood, riveted to the spot, instincts crying out [i]RUN![/i], yet betrayed by his broken body.

“Are you Yuri Antonov?”  The leader’s tone was brusque.  

His mouth fell open, an answer welling reluctantly forward when the world exploded in sound.  

A massive air horn, the sort found on large trucks sporting far more chrome than their designers intended, blared a deafening rendition of “La Cucaracha.”  Yuri turned, his jaw agape at the rolling billboard which soon pulled between the henchmen and himself.  The truck’s flatbed held a mariachi band who launched into a lively traditional song from Earth-That-Was.  

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[youtube]https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K0TeFa9ZbaQ[/youtube]
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Behind them stood a tall electronic display:

[b]WELCOME YURI ANTONOV!!![/b]

As if all of this wasn’t surreal enough, the strange little man who burst from the passenger side door only took this hatter’s dream to the next level.  “Yuri!  Baby!  Boobala!  Great to meetcha!”  As he offered an enthusiastic handshake, he shouted, “Leonard Booth, Attorney at law.  You can call me Booth.  C’mon, we gotta lay down tracks!”  He tugged at the mechanic, erasing all resistance when he added “Mr. Niska says [i]’Privet!’[/i]  Or should that be [i]’Buenos Dias?[/i]”